Guilt and Forgiveness
by Alithiel
Summary: Five years after Voldemort's defeat, Severus Snape reflects on his life, past and present.


Title: Guilt and Forgiveness

Summary: Severus Snape reflects on his life, past and present

Warnings: Angst, mild slash

Rating: PG-13

Archive: By permission only

Disclaimers:  Harry Potter and all characters/places contained therein are the property of J.K. Rowling, etc, etc…

It was long past midnight, in the small hours of the morning.  Silence ran in every direction through the ancient foundations of the castle, the peaceful quiet of many souls asleep and dreaming.  Only here and there were small, isolated pockets of activity.  Filch prowling the grounds, eager to pounce on any student unfortunate enough to be caught out of bed.  Several enterprising students, avoiding Filch's vindictive zeal, hidden away in shadowy corners of the Astronomy Tower, stealing the opportunity for a quick snog.  Albus Dumbledore, turning restlessly in his bed, looking for a comfortable position to rest weary, aging bones.  

            And last among those few still in the waking world, Severus Snape swept through the darkened hallways, a swift and soundless apparition.

            This would not have been a particularly unusual occurrence as recently as a year before.  Severus had always been known to lurk about in the hallways of the school at night, creeping up on wayward youngsters with a malicious pleasure that rivaled Filch's.  There was rarely a night that did not see the Potions Master making his brisk, cold, eerily silent rounds through the castle.  

In recent months, however, Severus' nocturnal activities had tapered off considerably.  Certainly he was still observed at times, most often by the hapless student moments before the Potions Master descended upon the unfortunate in a swirl of black robes and icy sarcasm.  These instances typically occurred no later than midnight, however.  It had become rare for the man to be out as he was now, with the hour fast approaching the stroke of two o'clock.

Severus moved up the staircase of the Astronomy Tower, his mood nastily bitter, hoping spitefully that he would come across a pair of moonstruck teenagers gnawing sloppily at each other's faces.  It would give him a great deal of satisfaction to be able to drag them apart and watch them wilt with humiliation.

As he continued upward, however, it became apparent that tonight no late stragglers would appear.  Even the most amorous of couples had retired to their beds, likely in the last few minutes, somehow sensing his sinister approach.

Lips tightening slightly in dissatisfaction, Severus stepped through a doorway near the very top of the tower, walking quietly through the deserted classroom to move out onto the balcony.

Night enveloped him.  The air was brisk, fall nights frosty with the approach of winter.  The sky was cloudless, every star shining with cold, perfect clarity, the near-full moon outlining sharp shadows against the paler darkness of the ground.  A cool breeze lifted several strands of his hair, brushing them over his lips, against his face.  He set his hands against the smooth, chill alabaster of the railing, looking out over the grounds, to the lake.  The water was black, rippling slightly in the wind to give off icy fragments of starlight, breaking up the reflection of the moon.

He exhaled quietly, watching distantly as his breath curled into a faint mist on the chilly air, then vanished.  Tonight was desolate.  Filled with a pervasive air of lonely bitterness.  It had been twenty-six years tonight.

On this night, twenty-six years ago, he had received the Dark Mark.  Become a Death Eater.  He had been eighteen years old.

This date did not strike him so forcefully every year, though he was always aware of the anniversary.  But this year was different.  This year… he had been… something almost like happy.  Almost content.

It was obscene.

Obscene that he should experience anything like real happiness, after all he had done.  He wasn't sure anyone really understood, not even Dumbledore.  Surely, he thought, his lips twisting bitterly, surely anyone who had any true understanding of what the Death Eaters did would not be so quick to forgive…

Severus closed his eyes briefly, the wind biting at his skin.

He had spent two years of his life as a Death Eater.  It seemed hardly significant, when it was said like that.  Two years out of forty-four.

He cracked his eyes open again.

Two endless, blood soaked years.

Few people understood what Voldemort's real objective had been.  His true purpose for the hordes of Muggles that populated the earth.  Everyone knew that Voldemort hated them, but few realized how deep, how abiding that revulsion went in the Dark Lord.  And along with them he reviled those wizards and witches of mixed blood.  The racially impure.

Severus was himself from a long line of pureblooded, wizarding aristocracy.  His family name had a recorded history going back centuries, if not millennia.  He had no great fondness for the Muggles.

Yet never once in his life had he ever dreamed, ever thought, even in passing, of Voldemort's crazed vision for the non-magic users.

_Extermination_.

In his insanity, Voldemort wanted to wipe all Muggles from the earth.  A massacre of incomprehensible proportions.  But first, of course, he had to have the wizarding world behind him, and that was something he could not achieve.

Severus walked slowly along the outer rim of the large balcony, trailing his hand over the railing as he gazed into the night unseeingly.

His seduction into the Death Eaters had begun slowly, almost innocently.  Voldemort's scouts had pinpointed him as a potential as early as his fourth year at Hogwarts, but they had not been foolish enough to try any kind of a direct approach.  He was too valuable to risk losing.  Innately talented in the Dark Arts, it was his aptitude for Potions that set him apart.  The precision and science that went into Potion making was something that the majority of the wizarding world found difficult to understand, much less master; someone with Severus' talent was far too rare to risk a fumble.

And so it had begun, as new and "exciting" people had started to befriend him, feeding him the praise and respect he didn't know he had been craving.  Telling him that he had talent, such amazing talent, and that if he knew how to use it there was no telling how far he would go…  Then there were the whispers of a great wizard, a powerful wizard, a wizard with a vision, who could use Severus' abilities, who had been _waiting_ for someone just like him.

Now Severus snorted bitterly.  What a fool he had been.

A Slytherin to his core, of course he had jumped at the chance to gain recognition through working for this unknown benefactor.  Almost lusting to prove himself, he had set out to be everything the "great wizard" wanted him to be.

Stupid.  He was a stupid, naïve, and arrogant brat of a child.  Thinking he was wise in the ways of the world, that he knew what he was getting into, that he could manipulate others so everything worked as he had planned.

Staring again at the lake, Severus could feel his lips twisting into a mocking sneer at the ghost of his past self.

With idiot self-assurance, he was certain he could handle anything that came his way, having achieved the lofty and exalted age of seventeen.

More conditioning, more praise and adulations as they slowly revealed deeper and darker ideas and plans.  Willfully blinded, Severus had been eager to embrace their ideals, eager to catapult himself into the prominence he was so certain his brilliance deserved.

Subtle reinforcements, subtle "proofs" that the wizarding race was superior to the Muggles, and shortly there after Severus was ready to meet the Dark Lord.  Ready for the Dark Mark.

It was with pride and agony that he had it seared into his flesh.  It sickened him now, to think that he had been truly _proud_ to bear the vile mark.

He stared blindly down at the ground.

Such was the folly of youth.

From then on the acts of violence, the rapes, the massacres that took place within the Death Eaters became exposed to him only slowly.  At first it was only work on the outside.  He was never directly involved in any of the crimes; it seemed that they knew that such an abrupt introduction to the horrors awaiting him would drive him away immediately.

So he began by making potions, simple and complex, and never knowing where they went, or who used them.  And he tried not to think about exactly what those potions were used for.

What a fool.  A stupid, brainless _child_!  As if the fact that he had not himself administered the poisons, the serums, the liquids made for slow, unbearable torture, as if that somehow absolved him of the guilt.

Severus' eyes took on a hollow, deadened look as he shifted his gaze to the dark shapes of the trees swaying in the breeze.

It was not long after that that he saw for the first time the evil he had created.  It was not enough any longer for him to simply make the potions.  It was time for him to see their effects first hand.  Time to prove his loyalty to the cause.  It was time for him to be the executioner.

The Potions Master closed his eyes.

The victim they had chosen for him had been a young, helpless Muggle girl.  He still remembered her face.  Her dark, terrified eyes as, bound and gagged, they dragged her forward and threw her at his feet.  He remembered the shocked disbelief that had risen in his chest as he stared at her, and heard his own voice murmur the words:

_"Ungag her."_

Then there was the horrified distance, the detachment of logical thought and emotion from actions.  It was a feeling of distortion, as one in the grip of a ferocious fever, mind and body on two different planes.  Inwardly, he was verging on hysteria, but, by some miracle he still couldn't quite comprehend, none of it had showed on his face.

The potion he forced on the girl was _Sufremiento_.  On the list of forbidden Dark mixtures, it was among the most horrific, agonizing, and deadly potions in existence.  Severus was one of the only wizards alive capable of making it.

He did not think he would ever forget the girl's screams.  They were the blood-curling, animalistic howls of a being at the utter extreme of agony a living creature can experience.  He watched as her flesh erupted and ran in blistering, putrid sores, her skin sagging away from her bones, eyes shriveling in their sockets, hair turning gray and brittle, like an old woman's.

Even now, more than twenty years later, the memories brought with them the nausea, faint echoes of the mind-numbing vertigo he felt then.

He had been nineteen.

Looking back, he could not comprehend how he had not fled Voldemort immediately after that experience.  Certainly he had wanted to.  Wanted to run, wanted to die.  But, perhaps in the end it was fear.  Yes, likely cowardice, and a disbelief that he could have made such a horrible mistake, could have let his pride and petty hatreds lead him into this.  Too afraid to end his own life, and too afraid of what would happen to him if the Death Eaters caught him running, he had done nothing.

It was only several months later that he finally found enough of his pathetic courage to flee the madness that had enveloped him.  Only after he really understood Voldemort's plans.  After he finally understood that their aim was _the total extermination of the non-magical human race._

In the time before he had fled he had seen many things.  Many nightmares that he could never confess to anyone.  Dumbledore had been privileged to his most heart-wrenching outpourings, but there were some things about which he simply could not speak.  And nothing he could do to make it right.  Only struggle, on and on, month after soul-shattering month in his role as Dumbledore's spy.  Back to the Death Eaters, to witness, to participate in more crimes, more horrors.

And it was not enough.  It would never be enough to absolve him of the guilt.

Severus opened his eyes again, looking out once more to the night.

There had been three times.  Three times in the twenty-four years since he had abandoned the Death Eaters that he had wept.

 The first was when he had fallen upon the mercy of Albus Dumbledore, relaying to him the sordid, ugly tale.  The telling seared like razors along his mind, as he was forced to hear his own voice outline his utter, gluttonous stupidity.  In the end he had turned his back to the old wizard, unable to meet the grave, kindly blue eyes, weeping into his hands, silent and ashamed.

The second had occurred many years later, following a summoning from Voldemort and his followers.  After a night in which he had endured repeated bouts of _Crucio_, and, so much worse, been again made party to the torture, the obscene sports of their death games.  He could not avoid it.  If he was to continue to be of use to Dumbledore and the resistance, he had to do as a Death Eater was expected to do.  But the part he was required to play tore him to pieces.  Normally he could keep it under control.  A weaker man could never have born it, but of all the things he was, Severus was not weak.  But that night had been too much even for him.

He had returned to Hogwarts, his mind and soul scraped raw by all he had seen and done.  His memories of how he had found the will to drag himself to the Headmaster's office were blurred and indistinct, but he remembered finally standing in the doorway, sagging against the frame as he struggled to gather his thoughts and explain to the older wizard what had occurred at this latest Death Eater meeting.

And then he had realized he was falling, and it somehow happened that he was on his knees, his head in Dumbledore's lap as he shook with silent, agonizing tears.  Memories of Albus' hand stroking his hair, the Headmaster's voice, laced with sorrow, whispering softly, gently, _"My dear boy…"_

The third and final time had been five years ago.  After his graduation from Hogwarts, Harry Potter had faced the Dark Lord a final time.  

There had been many people involved, many elements to the battle.  Severus himself had been engaged in holding off several Death Eaters, preventing them from interfering with Harry.

And finally, finally, the Boy Who Lived had triumphed.

At eighteen years old, the same age Severus had been when he became one of Voldemort's followers, Harry Potter had defeated him.

And as the cracked and searing blackness of the Dark Mark was razed away to leave a pale and shining scar, Severus had slowly crumpled to the ground.  Clutching his arm against his chest, he had sobbed his release into the earth, overcome as the knowledge washed over him.  That finally he was free.  Twenty-one years after becoming a Death Eater, Voldemort held sway over his life no longer.

Severus felt a chill pass through him as a particularly biting gust of wind swept across the balcony.  It reminded him of Durmstrang.

Turning slowly, he moved back into the castle, drawing his robes a bit closer about himself.

His dark eyes were shadowed as he made his way down from the Astronomy Tower, silently descending the curving staircase.  A feeling like sickness churned in his gut.

In the end, what right did he really have to the happiness that was now offered to him?  What right did he have even to live now, when so many had died as a result of what he had done?

His fingers trailed across the cool, familiar stones of the gently rounded wall.  Perhaps, as so many people believed, he did belong in Azkaban.

He stepped down into the hallway and began walking in the direction of the dungeons, his strides slow and weary.  The hour must have been nearing three.

As he was passing by the Great Hall, he glanced idly at the House Points.  Gryffindor was leading, with Slytherin trailing by ten.  

He felt his lips twist wryly, something almost like a smile.  Harry had been generous with his House again.  Apparently Severus would have to be even harder on them during their next class.

The moment's good humor faded quickly, though, and he turned away to continue toward his rooms.  Then a voice reached him out of the darkness, willowy and gentle.

"Ah, Severus…  I see you are having trouble finding your rest tonight as well."

The Potions Master paused, feeling a twinge of surprise before he twisted back to face the elderly wizard emerging from the shadows.

Albus Dumbledore was walking toward him slowly, his dark violet robes whispering softly against the stone as he approached.

"Headmaster," Severus acknowledged softly.

Dumbledore's gradual steps finally brought him to a halt just before the tall Potions Master.

"Yes," the Headmaster said quietly, almost musing.  "Tonight is a restless night.  A night of many memories."

He peered at Severus then, his blue eyes measuring behind the half-moon spectacles.

"You are not usually out so late anymore, my boy."

Severus said nothing.  Albus knew, of course, the anniversary that tonight marked.

There was a long silence between them, but it was not awkward.   Too much had passed between them, too many years and too many memories for silences to be awkward anymore.  Finally Dumbledore released a little sigh and looked at him again.  His voice, when he spoke, was layered with sorrow.

"Even still, Severus, you cannot forgive yourself."

Severus looked away, folding his arms over his chest.  Again, he spent a moment in silence.  Finally:  "Could you, Albus?"  Then his face twisted mockingly.  "Not that you need even imagine it.  You could never have been so corrupted."

No.  Albus Dumbledore was the closest thing Severus knew to a living saint.

Albus stood at his side, gazing into the distance as well, and it seemed to Severus that he was gathering his thoughts.  He sighed again.  Then, gently, he placed his hand on Severus' arm, forcing the taller man's gaze to him.   His voice was soft and sincere.

"Do you think all of us who care about you are blind to what you have done, Severus?  Do you truly believe I do not understand what it was to be a Death Eater, that I cannot imagine the atrocities that occurred?  I have always considered myself to be a good judge of character, my boy.  I hold your past, even with all its horrors, against the man you are today, and I see a man who is worthy.  A man made whole.  Who deserves _forgiveness_ for the foolishness of his youth."

Albus offered him a small comforting smile, but, gazing down at him, Severus could offer nothing back.

"But you need not hear my voice alone, Severus.  Think of Minerva.  Think of Harry.  Do you imagine that Harry, of all people, does not know all you have done?  Has not accepted what you were?  He has forgiven you, too.  Do our opinions count for so little, that you will not believe you are worth redeeming?"

Severus could feel a peculiar tightness in his throat, and he took a slow breath, closing his eyes on the pain.

"It is another thing entirely to live with this, Albus," he whispered.  He knew that the Headmaster understood what he meant.

Dumbledore's hand slid to Severus' back as he stepped to the side and began walking slowly, urging the Potions Master along with him.  He let his hand drop when Severus obeyed unresistingly, allowing the Headmaster to usher him toward the dungeons again.

"I do not doubt it, Severus."  The old wizard's voice was sad again.  "And I would not insult you by making light of your suffering."  Here Albus' eyes sharpened behind the spectacles, though his words remained soft and unhurried.  "I would only ask that you not do anything foolish in some misguided effort to serve your notions of justice."

There was no need to ask what he meant by something foolish.

            They came to a halt at the top of the stairs leading down to the dungeons, and the Headmaster touched Severus' arm again, his eyes gentle and serene in their wisdom.

            "There are those of us who love you, my dear boy.  Do not doubt it."

            Feeling again that subtle tightening of his throat, Severus hesitated from going down the stairs.

            "Albus…"

            And then his voice trailed off, and he looked at the older man in silence.

            Albus walked slower now than he had, even as recently as when Harry Potter was a student.   His back wasn't quite so straight, his movements not quite so certain.  There were deeper lines around his eyes, and Severus knew he had been to see Poppy more often of late.  The long fall of his beard and the voluminous folds of his robes could not conceal the fact that the Headmaster had lost weight, that his body was becoming fragile.

            It struck Severus then, with absurd belatedness, that Albus Dumbledore would not be with them too much longer.  Of course he should have realized it was inevitable, but the older wizard had been in his life for so long, with such permanence…  Been the unshakeable rock he could brace himself against.  He could not imagine Hogwarts without him.

            He found himself staring at Albus' hands, the prominent blue veins emphasizing a frailty he had never noticed before.

            Albus Dumbledore had been long-bearded and white-haired since Severus himself was a student.  Yet somehow he had never really appreciated how old the other wizard was.  Severus himself was still quite young, by wizarding standards; he had more than a century of life still ahead of him.  He guessed that Dumbledore had passed his one hundred sixtieth birthday.

            Soon he would be gone.  Maybe not for several years yet.  But soon.

            Jerking his gaze up to Albus' calm, gentle eyes, he found himself strangely at a loss.  This man was one of only two people living whom he truly loved.  Throughout their thirty-year relationship, he had been to Severus mentor, teacher, advisor, councilor, supporter, and friend.  The only person he had always been able to depend on.  He could not imagine life without him.

            "Albus…" he said again, but now his voice was a whisper, carrying a note of shock that was foreign to him.  He found himself speaking without thought, struggling to make things right, as if he could stave off the Headmaster's quietly approaching death.  "You're not sleeping either.  Is there anything I can make for you, Albus?  Do you need a sleeping potion?  Anything to ease any… discomforts you might have?"

            Albus smiled at him then, the expression warm and comfortable, and some of the familiar twinkle glimmered in his blue eyes.  "Thank you, Severus.  Some of your special sleeping potions would be nice.  Don't tell Poppy I said this, but hers don't work quite so well as yours do.  Oh, they put me to sleep well enough, but they tend to leave me with a rather lethargic feeling that is bothersome.  You always do it just right.  I don't suppose you could manage some of your mint flavored mix?  I'm quite fond of that."

            Severus found himself both calmed and grieved by Dumbledore's return to cheerfulness.  It was a poignant reminder of so much he admired in the other man, and yet, of all he would be losing.

            "Of course I could manage it," he snapped, testy without meaning to be.  But the grief hurt more, and he knew Albus would understand.  "I'll have it for you tomorrow.  Or perhaps 'today' would be more appropriate."

            Dumbledore smiled at him again.  "Ah, thank you so much, dear boy.  Yes, the hour is getting quite late, isn't it?"

            Albus patted his back.  "Go back to your rooms, Severus."  His eyes softened.  "All the proof you need is waiting for you there."

            Despite himself, Severus felt the ghost of a smile touch his lips.  He nodded, speaking softly.  "Good night, Headmaster."

            Albus stepped back, folding his hands in front of himself again.  "Good night, Severus."

            The older wizard did not move, though, and a pained smile again tugged at Severus' lips as he turned away, beginning to head down the stairs.  Albus was still looking out for him.  No doubt the Headmaster would not himself retire until he knew that Severus was safely ensconced in his rooms.

            Feeling both better and worse, the Potions Master continued down the steps, into the familiar depths of the dungeons.  The cooler air enveloped him as he arrived at the hallway, not bothering with a light, despite the near total darkness.  He was familiar with nearly every corner of the dungeons by now, and the path to his rooms was so ingrained that he could have managed it walking backwards and blindfolded.

            Arriving at his door, he murmured a few soft words to unlock it, and pressing his palm against the aged oak, stepped inside, shutting it behind him.

            Warm, gentle light suffused the living area, emanating from the fireplace on the far wall.  The logs snapped and popped, almost inaudibly, the sound strangely comforting.

            Drawing off his outer robes, Severus walked into the study to the left, separated from the main room by a partial wall.  He draped his robes over the back of the chair that stood before his desk, then paused, feeling a strange tightening of his heart.

            A cup of his favorite tea was steaming gently atop his desk, set quietly next to a stack of potions books.  A warming spell had kept it the perfect temperature for drinking while it waited for him, no doubt placed there hours earlier.

            A soft sigh eased from his lips as he carefully picked it up, cupping it in his palms to let the warmth seep into his hands.  After a brief moment he sank into the comfort of his leather chair and brought the cup to his lips, enjoying the subtle blending of herbs and flowers, a faint sweetness suggesting that a drop of honey had been added.  He felt the slow easing of a headache he'd hardly been aware that he had, letting his head drop back against the chair for a moment.

            Gazing at the ceiling, he let his thoughts drift over all Albus had said.  Despite the older wizard's reassurances, he did not know if he would ever be able to forgive himself.  He still did not really believe he deserved that luxury.  But he could… continue living.  Continue working against those Death Eaters that had escaped the final battle.  Continue struggling with his demons.

            Setting the now empty teacup down on his desk again, he raised his eyes to the clock.  It was just after three in the morning.  He had to be up again in little more than four hours.

            Rising, he moved quietly into the bathroom, cleaning his teeth and splashing some water on his face before entering the bedroom.  A light was still on, waiting for him. The rustle of cloth was the only sound he made as he began undressing.  He folded each article of clothing neatly, setting them on a small chair against the wall.

            He had slept naked for many years, but these past few months there had been a new incentive for doing so.

            Walking to the bed, he drew back the covers, sliding between them carefully, so as not to disturb slumbering form on the other side.

            Once he had settled himself, Severus turned onto his side, gazing at the man who shared his bed.  His partner was sleeping with his back to him, the covers having slipped free of one shoulder to reveal the curve of smooth, tanned skin.  His black hair stuck out from his head in all directions, always more tousled when he slept.  Among other things.

            Gently, Severus ran his fingertips over that exposed shoulder, caressing the warm skin with the lightest of touches.  The muscles flexed beneath his fingers as the other man shifted slightly, a contented sigh escaping him.

            Drawing a slow breath, Severus let his hand drag the blankets a bit further down as he followed the line of his lover's shoulder blade, taking a strange comfort in the familiar feel of his body.

            A sudden pang of desire to be closer to him made Severus close the distance between them on the bed, moving so that the other man's back was against his chest.  Bowing his head, he rested for a moment with his forehead against the curve of the sleeping man's neck.

            A soft murmur slipped from his partner's lips, and then Severus was forced to lift his head and make room as the other man rolled slowly toward him, his side now pressed closely against Severus' body.  The black lashes slowly parted to reveal unfocused emerald eyes, blinking at him sleepily.

            Severus gazed back at him, not speaking, and Harry's lips formed a soft, welcoming smile.

            The younger man's voice was slurred with sleep, punctuated by long pauses and slow breaths.  He was clearly only half-awake.

            "Sev…"  His hand came up, fingers brushing over the Potion Master's cheek.  "Mmm… y're late…"  He continued to stroke Severus' face, pushing his fingers up through his hair.  "Was thinking… 'bout you…"  His thumb smoothed over Severus' eyebrow.  "You… get your tea?"

            Severus nodded, lifting his own hand to push soft hair back from his lover's eyes.  "Yes," he said quietly, "Thank you."

            Harry's hand dropped back to rest beside his head, the effort of fighting gravity to stroke Severus' cheek evidently becoming too much, and his eyelids drooped.

            "S'goo, ithou youmighb'… col…"

            After a moment of staring at him blankly, Severus managed to translate the nearly unintelligible speech: _That's good, I thought you might be cold._

            He gazed at Harry for a moment, wondering how this had happened; how this strong, intelligent individual, this terribly _good_ man had come to be his mate.  He brought his hand down, smoothing the backs of his fingers along line of Harry's jaw, feeling the mild roughness of the day's beard.    He paused at his chin, brushing his thumb over the slight cleft there.  Bending down, Severus pressed a brief, gentle kiss to the other man's lips, felt Harry's slow response.

            As he pulled back, Harry's eyelids fluttered, and his partner smiled at him again before they fell closed once more.  Rolling toward him, Harry paused with his forehead touching Severus' chest, one arm falling heavily over his hip, atop the blankets.

            "…love you… Sev…"

            The words were barely audible as Harry subsided into sleep, his breath evening out on a contented sigh.

            Severus remained propped up on his elbow for a moment, letting his hand smooth over Harry's shoulder again, and beneath the blankets, down the warmth of his back. 

            _"Go back to your rooms, Severus.  All the proof you need is waiting for you there…"_

            Was this proof, then?  That… he loved someone… who, against all reason, loved him back?  That the person who loved him was Harry Potter.  The Death Eater with the man who had become the symbol of all that was good in the wizarding world.

            Their relationship had remained blessedly quiet during these first seven months, but Severus knew it was only a matter of time before some rabid reporter uncovered it.  And would he mind, when the rumors started, the threats and derision?  Would it bother him, when they attacked him with words and revulsion?  No.  

But it would be harder, when Harry suffered.  And he would.  He would bear it doubly, for Severus' sake and for his own.  It would pain him when those around him lashed out at his Death Eater lover, and it would hurt again when they accused him of betraying what he stood for, as they inevitably would.

Severus had spent decades being reviled.  It no longer upset him; in truth, it had never hurt him deeply to begin with.  He did not want or need everyone to like him.  He could count on one hand the number of people whose opinions mattered to him.

Harry was different.  He did now know what it was like to have impersonal public anger targeted at him, much less for something so cruel as who he had chosen to love.  It would have been easier if he had done something to deserve it.

Harry would not fold under the pressure; of that Severus was certain.  The Boy Who Lived was a boy no longer, he was every inch a man, and more than capable of fighting his own battles.  But that did not mean it would be easy.

Sighing softly, Severus settled himself on the bed, his chin brushing against Harry's dark, unruly locks.  A lassitude was finally stealing into his limbs, and his eyelids felt heavy, but he kept them open a moment longer, idly stroking Harry's back.

Harry would be fighting for him.  The Death Eater turned spy turned Potions Master.  Did he deserve it?

He didn't think so.  Self-forgiveness was still miles and miles away for him.  He doubted he would arrive there during his lifetime.  But maybe…  Maybe he hated himself a little less.

Pressing a soft kiss to Harry's forehead, the Potions Master drifted into sleep.

Author's Notes:  Well, this ended up being about twice as long as I'd intended, but I'm rather fond.  I may or may not write a short sequel.  Depends on the interest this generates.  Em, yeah…  That's about it.


End file.
